


Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes

by bowlingmoderately (moderatelybowling)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Falling In Love, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pining, Religion, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderatelybowling/pseuds/bowlingmoderately
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Illya wants to be a pastor, Napoleon is the preacher's son, and they're in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heads up, there's one instance of a homophobic slur being used in this chapter, but it's used by a queer character in reference to themselves
> 
> they're also both on the tail end of 17 in this fic

Napoleon’s lungs are burning by the time he gets home, having to had run all the way from the school. His father had wanted him home by four, something about a visitor coming to the house. Normally he wouldn’t give a damn about what his father wants, but he’s already been late twice this week. He knows that if it happens again he’ll end up grounded, and sneaking out his window is _so_ inconvenient. 

He’d also really rather not have his father questioning about _why_ he’s late, because then he’d have to dodge around the fact that he had spent the last hour kissing a cheerleader under the bleachers. Napoleon knows that at this point his father would mostly be relieved that Napoleon had been making advances towards a _girl_ for once, but that relief might even be worse than the anger that he lashes out with when he sees Napoleon making eyes at members of the football team. Apparently being the local pastor’s son means that Napoleon’s not supposed to have any _fun_. 

The thought of that particular family issue is still on his mind as Napoleon bursts in through the back door, skidding to a halt in the kitchen. He braces his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He really needs to stop smoking. Napoleon straightens up again, pushing his curling hair out of his eyes and finally noticing that he’s not alone in the kitchen.

His father is standing by the stove, two mugs in his hands, glaring at Napoleon. Despite the fact that he can almost already _hear_ the lecture he’s going to get later, Napoleon’s full attention quickly falls to the other person in the room. There is a _giant_ sitting at Napoleon’s kitchen table. A blonde, blue-eyed, incredibly _attractive_ giant, who’s staring right at Napoleon, surprise painted all over his face. Napoleon grins at him, thrilled at the turn of events. The boy blushes and ducks his head down, hiding his face in the mug of tea that Napoleon’s father has set down in front of him. Napoleon continues openly staring at him, taking in how very _young_ the boy looks. He’s got to be at least 6’2, but he’s definitely around Napoleon’s age, but his blush and the way he’s hunching in on himself and the way that he had quietly whispered “thank you” for the tea just make him seem so innocent, the kind of innocent that makes Napoleon want to slam him up against against a wall and make him whimper.

Napoleon is yanked out of his thoughts when he hears a throat clear, and notices the look that his father is giving him. It’s a look that says that his father is _very_ disappointed in him for being late, and _very_ aware that Napoleon had probably been late for some terrible sinful reason, and that Napoleon is very _very_ grounded.

After a bit of a staring match, his father finally turns his gaze back to the boy at the table, realizing how long the silence has gone on.

“lllya, this is my son, Napoleon,” he says, gesturing towards Napoleon. “Napoleon, this is Illya Kuryakin. He and his mother just moved here from Russia.”

Illya finally glances up from his mug at the introduction, clumsily standing up from the table to stick his hand out towards Napoleon. Napoleon has to hold back a laugh at his formality, meeting the other boy’s eyes with a smirk as he takes his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Illya.” He holds onto his hand just the tiniest bit too long, letting go when he sees Illya’s cheeks start to redden again. Illya quickly steps back after Napoleon lets go of his hand, looking down and shoving his hands into his pockets. Napoleon thinks that he’s probably the most adorable person he’s ever seen.

His father clears his throat again, and Napoleon looks towards him. 

“Illya here wants to join the clergy, so I’ve agreed to take him under my wing. I wanted you to meet him, since you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” His eyes narrow, giving Napoleon a pointed look as he continues. “I expect you to be on your best behavior when Illya is here, and I trust that you’ll help him find his way around the school. Understood?”

“Of course,” Napoleon responds, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his tone as light as possible. Illya is already blushing at Napoleon’s father’s comments, and he doesn’t want to have to put him through a full blown argument. Napoleon might be an asshole, but he’s not _that_ much of an asshole.

Illya shifts nervously on his feet, quickly glancing at Napoleon before turning to his father.

“I must go now, my mother will worry. Thank you for everything, Mr. Solo”

And Jesus _Christ_ , is that a nice voice. He has one of the thickest accents Napoleon has ever heard, his voice deep but soft. Napoleon wishes that he would talk more. He also kind of wishes that he would do things with him that involve _not_ talking, but that’s beside the point.

Illya quickly says his goodbyes, briefly meeting Napoleon’s eyes and nodding at him before he walks out the door, hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Napoleon thinks that he might actually drive him insane with how cute he is. 

After Illya is gone, while Napoleon’s father is chewing him out for being late and making Illya uncomfortable, he barely hears a word he says. All he can think about is Illya’s blue eyes and how soft his hair looked and what that voice would sound like rough from moaning. He doesn’t even mind that he gets grounded for the weekend. He knows that he’ll be able to keep himself plenty busy by himself in his room.

///

Napoleon’s weekend passes uneventfully. He doesn’t actually sneak out for once, spending his days in his room doing homework (he might be the town’s resident rebel, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be stuck here his whole life) sleeping, and .....not sleeping. And if thoughts of big hands and broad shoulders and shy blue eyes end up cropping up a bit more than usual while Napoleon’s biting down on his fist, one hand shoved down his pants, then no one needs to know.

///

By Monday morning Napoleon thinks that he’s maybe finally gotten his crush out of his system, barely even thinking about Illya as he walks to school, his bag slung over one shoulder, cigarette dangling from his mouth. The day passes by normally, full of boring lectures, teachers glaring at him, and Gaby chatting his ear off as they recline in the grass outside during lunch. 

It’s only at the end of the day, as Napoleon’s on his way out, that he sees Illya. He catches sight of him as he turns a corner, grinning as he strolls up to him. Illya’s frowning at his locker, fiddling with the lock and occasionally glancing down at a scrap of paper in his hand. He’s so immersed in his struggle that he doesn’t even notice Napoleon until he speaks.

“Have you tried kicking it?”

Napoleon can’t help laughing when Illya jumps, dropping the paper. Napoleon stoops down to grab it, glancing at the combination written on it before reaching towards the lock. “Here, let me try,” he says, quickly spinning the dial, shoving the lock up, and kicking the bottom of the locker as he pulls the handle. When the locker pops open, Napoleon steps back and looks at Illya. “A lot of the lockers stick at the bottom, but if you give them a good kick they’ll usually open,” he explains, handing the paper back. Illya’s jerks his hand away when their hands brush together, and Napoleon has to try his best not to pout. 

“Thank you,” Illya says, not meeting Napoleon’s eyes. He quickly starts to shove books from his bag into his locker, obviously wanting the interaction to end. Napoleon is undeterred. He leans against the locker next to Illya’s, trying his best to make conversation, determined to get the Russian to say more than two words to him.

“So what exactly are you looking to get from my father? Are you his apprentice now or something? Is he gonna teach you how to be a true holy man?” 

“Something like this.’ Illya replies, slamming his locker shut as he glances at Napoleon. He starts walking away, but does not look particularly surprised (or unhappy) when Napoleon jogs to catch up to him, so he counts it as a win. 

They walk all the way back to Napoleon’s house together, since Illya is supposed to spend the day with his father. Napoleon spends pretty much the entire time talking, desperate to get Illya to say something. To his disappointment the other boy’s answers continue to be quiet and short, but by the time they make it to the house, he looks less like he’s about to flee every time Napoleon so much as looks at him, and his shoulders are the tiniest bit looser. Napoleon is thrilled, and not even his father banishing him to his room with a pointed “Don’t you have homework to do, Napoleon?” dampens his mood. And the way that Illya’s eyes track his every movement until he disappears into the hallway _definitely_ doesn’t dampen his mood.

///

Napoleon spend the rest of the week walking home each day with Illya, chattering on about whatever crosses his mind. After the first day, Illya actually starts responding. He tells Napoleon about his classes, about his school back in Russia, about how confusing American slang is. Napoleon has to try his best not to swoon every time he speaks, because apparently he definitely _didn’t_ get over his crush. He knows that it’s a bad idea to actually start liking someone as religious as Illya, but he still can’t seem to stop the feeling in his chest whenever Illya laughs at one of his jokes, or meets his eyes, or does literally anything.

///

On Friday, Illya catches Napoleon with a boy behind the school. The boy’s in the grade below him and Illya, a little too tall for his age and with short blonde hair. He’s been casting furtive glances at Napoleon in their math class for the last month and a half, and Napoleon’s never been the kind to discourage some exploration. If the kid’s curious, he’s sure as hell not opposed to helping him out, which is why he’s currently sucking kisses against the boy’s neck, shushing him when he gets a little too loud. Napoleon’s really not going to analyze why exactly he chose _now_ to finally approach him, but he’s completely sure that it has nothing to do with the fact that the shirt that Illya was wearing today fit him _really well_. Absolutely nothing to do with that. 

Speaking of Illya, that’s exactly who he sees when he hears a choked noise behind him, whipping around as the other boy lets out a squeak and flees. Illya’s staring at him, his eyes wide and shocked. He’s stopped blushing as much around Napoleon in the last few days, but now there’s color high in his cheeks. Heart sinking, Napoleon braces himself for the inevitable fallout. He knew that this would happen eventually (Illya’s going to be a _pastor_ for god’s sake), but he didn’t know that it would happen so soon. He has to hold back a wince at the thought of how awkward it’s going to be to have _two_ people glaring at him around the house, muttering about his sins. And Illya’s still just _staring_ at him.

“Would you just fucking get it over with?” Napoleon snaps, glaring at him, his arms crossed. Illya starts at that, still looking at Napoleon like he has two heads.

“Get it... over with?” he asks dumbly.

“Yeah, _it_. Don’t tell me that you’re not about to launch into some rant about my eternal soul and how the Devil’s got a hold on me. Or how I should be ashamed of myself. Or you could just punch me. I’m used to all it by now.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, something ugly and hard settling in his chest at the thought of awkward, blushing Illya hating him for this. He knows it’s only been a week, that he shouldn’t care this much, but it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Illya had been the one person left in town who didn’t know, or at least have suspicions. 

Illya is still hasn’t said anything, just staring at Napoleon with that stupid shocked expression. And damn him, he still looks _cute_. Napoleon can’t believe that he’s still thinking about him like that, when Illya’s obviously never going to even want to be _near_ him again.

That thought sparks something in his chest, and suddenly he’s furious. Furious at the situation, furious at Illya, furious at _himself_ for being like this. For not just being able to find a nice girl to settle down with someday, for not being able to ignore the heat in his veins and the ache in his belly at the sight of big hands and muscled arms and strong jaws. He steps towards Illya, a feral grin taking over his face when Illya takes a step back. 

“C’mon Illya, you had to have known. You had to have heard the rumors about Pastor Solo’s fag of a son. About how poor little Napoleon’s going straight to Hell.”

Finally, Illya speaks, his blush deepening at Napoleon’s words. “I... I had heard what they say about you.... but I didn’t..... I wasn’t sure”

Napoleon laughs bitterly at that. “Well you’re sure now, huh?”

Illya just keeps staring at him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Like _he’s_ the one that has something to be ashamed of. It makes Napoleon even angrier, angry that Illya won’t just lash out, call him an abomination, break his heart and let Napoleon get over him. Napoleon’s bitter smile turns into a snarl, and he takes another step forward. Illya doesn’t move back fast enough this time, and without thinking Napoleon shoves him in the chest.

“Why won’t you just fucking _say something,_ ” he growls, advancing again. Illya swallows, still looking trapped. This close up, Napoleon can see how dilated Illya’s pupils are. He frowns at that, his brow furrowing and his mouth opening a little in confusion. He sees Illya’s gaze flicker down to his mouth, and then quickly back up, his face as red as Napoleon’s ever seen it, and then it’s Napoleon glancing down, and _oh_.

Illya is hard.

Illya’s pupils are dilated and he’s hard and Napoleon suddenly realizes that Illya’s blush and his staring and his silence aren’t because he’s disgusted. It’s because he had just seen Napoleon making out with that boy, and he had _liked it._ He had liked it, and he is _scared_. And he _definitely_ noticed when Napoleon glanced down, and now he’s shaking, and he’s backing away, choking something out in Russian. Before Napoleon can do anything, he’s gone, practically running away.

Napoleon’s left alone behind the school, confused and dazed and the tiniest bit hopeful.

///

Napoleon doesn’t see Illya at all the next week. He avoids the halls in the school where he knows Napoleon will be, flees the school as quickly as he can at the end of the day, and uses the excuse of being sick to stay away from his house.

Napoleon spends the week thinking over the situation. He comes to the conclusion that he has two courses of action to choose from. The first option is to pretend that this entire thing never happened, be polite and courteous and distant around Illya, and forget about him as soon as high school is over.

His other option is to seduce Illya, let him fuck him into his mattress, and then spend the foreseeable future trying to convince him not to become a pastor. The church is not the most accepting place for people like him and Illya, and Napoleon knows what denying something like this can do to a man. He doesn’t want that to happen to Illya, because for some reason he’s accidentally actually started _caring_ about the giant awkward puppy of a Russian. Plus, he also really really _really_ wants to fuck Illya.

Napoleon knows which option is the smart once to choose. He knows that he should just forget all about his and get on with his life.

He makes up his mind.

He starts going through his closet, searching for his tightest t-shirts.

///

When Napoleon walks into school on Monday morning, he thinks he actually sees a girl walk into a door because she was staring.

He’s wearing his best pair of jeans (the black ones that make his ass look fantastic) paired with a white tee that he knows for a _fact_ draws attention to his arms. His hair is styled to look like he’s run his hands through it one too many times, his curls falling down over his forehead. He looks good, and he knows it.

Gaby whistles when she sees him, raising an eyebrow at his appearance.

“Is there a particular _reason_ why you’re dressed like that, or did you just wake up and decide that it was a good day to give half of the girls at school a heart attack?”

Napoleon laughs at that, slinging an arm around her shoulders and steering her down the hall towards their shared homeroom.

“My dearest Gabrielle, it’s not the girls that I’m concerned about. My mark is tall, blonde, Russian, and decidedly male.”

Gaby laughs in shock, looking at Napoleon in disbelief. “You’re seducing _Kuryakin_? The 6’2 shrinking violet? Who wants to be a _pastor_?”

“I am.” Napoleon sighs happily. “And if you’ll excuse me, there’s the man himself.” Napoleon untangles himself from Gaby, quickly making his way over to where he’s spotted Illya. He’s at his locker, frowning at his books like they’ve done him a personal wrong. Just like that first day, Illya doesn’t even notice Napoleon until he speaks.

“Are you coming over today?” 

Unlike last time, Illya doesn’t look up. He only mutters “No”, continuing to stare into his locker as his shoulders stiffen. 

“C’mon, Peril, you haven’t been over in a week! Isn’t your soul going to start rotting or something if you don’t keep studying the Bible or whatever it is you do?”

Illya finally looks up, but he only manages do get out “What did you call m-” before he stops short. Napoleon thinks that managing to make someone’s jaw actually drop just from looking at him may be one of his greatest achievements. Illya’s staring at him again, his eyes raking up and down his body. Napoleon can’t really bring himself to mind this time, since it’s pretty much the exact reaction that he was going for. 

“My eyes are up here, Peril,” he laughs, grinning and cocking an eyebrow when Illya looks back up at him, looking shell shocked.

“Wh- Why do you call me?” Illya manages to stutter out, his English jumbled.

Napoleon’s grin turns wicked as he steps closer, cocking his head as he looks up at Illya through is lashes. “Y’know, like the Red Peril? Since you’re so big and strong and Russian” Napoleon purrs, laying his hand on Illya’s bicep. He sees Illya swallow, his lips parting as he looks down at Napoleon.

Just as Napoleon’s about to make another comment about how very _big_ Illya is, the bell rings, snapping Illya out of his daze. Before Napoleon can so much as flutter his eyelashes at him, Illya is gone, quickly disappearing in the crowded hall. Napoleon sighs in annoyance, slamming Illya’s locker closed for him and making his way to homeroom. 

///

Napoleon doesn’t see Illya again until he gets home after school. He took the long way home, wanting to think over his next move. By the time he gets home Illya is sitting at his kitchen table, waiting for Napoleon’s father to get home from running his errands. There’s a Bible set on the table in front of him. Illya keeps his eyes determinedly glued to the book as Napoleon walks in. Napoleon can’t see his face, but his stiff body language is broadcasting his nervousness loud and clear. He huffs out a laugh, walking towards Illya until his chest is pressed against the back of his chair. He hooks his chin over his shoulder, draping his arms over the chair to rest them across Illya’s chest.

“What’cha reading?” he murmurs, his breath huffing against Illya’s ear. He feels Illya’s entire body shiver, his head still hanging down. Encouraged, he carefully bites at the lobe of Illya’s ear, smiling when he hears Illya whimper. He keeps going, licking at the shell, nuzzling at the hollow space behind his ear. By the time he moves down to press wet, gentle kisses against the side of his neck, Illya is gripping the edge of the table, bracing himself, his knuckles white.

When he hears his father’s car pull up to the house, he presses one last kiss to the joint of Illya’s shoulder and neck.

“See you later, Peril,” he whispers, winking at him as he saunters out of the kitchen, leaving Illya hard and panting as he grips the old faded wood of the table.

\\\\\

Illya spends the rest of the day trying to keep his thoughts off of Napoleon, to not feel the way that he can still feel the warmth of Napoleon’s mouth, the way his hands pressed down against his chest. He tries his best to listen to what Reverend Solo says, to make thoughtful remarks on his teachings, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t keep his mind off of the pastor’s son. He leaves early, making excuses about his mother needing his help with chores. He tries not to feel too guilty about lying, since sticking around would only be a waste of the pastor’s time.

His mother, thankfully, is not home when he arrives. He rushes up to his room, slamming the door and leaning up against it as he breathes heavily. He undoes his fly, shoving his hand down into his boxers to finally wrap it around himself. He can’t help moaning when he does, finally getting some relief from the heat that’s been pooling in his belly since Napoleon had first walked into the kitchen.

He pumps himself fast and rough, desperate to get off. He rarely does this, a result of a Christian upbringing and growing up in a too-small house, but ever since that first day in the Solos’ kitchen he’s been having to get himself off more and more. The thought of Napoleon is a constant itch under his skin, and this the only way that he can scratch it. 

Illya thinks that Napoleon might actually be driving him insane, with his cocky smirks and his swaying hips and the way that he looks at Illya like he can see every sick, perverted thought in his head. Like he _knows_ that Illya thinks about him at night, when he buries his face in his pillow and wraps a hand around himself and _sobs_ for it, for the thought of Napoleon touching him, putting his hands on him. Like Napoleon wants to shove him up against the nearest wall and make him beg and cry. Like Napoleon wants to _ruin_ him.

Illya comes at that thought, trying and failing to hold back his moan as his back arches off of the door and and free hand scrambles at the wood behind him. 

Illya’s only afterglow is the feeling of guilt settling heavy in the pit of his stomach, his nose wrinkling as he peels off his ruined boxers, unbuttons his shirt, and throws both into his hamper. He pulls on his pajamas and flops down onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow and trying to ignore the hot regret licking through his veins. This is what Napoleon has turned him into, a ball of confusion and lust and guilt. 

He knows that he should hate the other boy for it, but despite everything he can’t bring himself to feel anything but nervousness and affection and heat when he thinks about the American. Napoleon is bold and collected and sure of himself, everything that blushing, stuttering, too-tall Illya is not. His laughs and jokes and smiles spark something in Illya that he’s never felt before, something that makes him want to keep coming back despite knowing that Napoleon is no one that a good Christian boy should be hanging around with. Illya thinks that he might be able to deal with the lust if it was just that, but its not. He really does want to spend time with Napoleon, to listen to him talk and to make him laugh. That’s what’s been making it so hard for Illya to brush him off.

Illya knows that his father would have hated Napoleon, would have scoffed and glared and muttered about how he would get what was coming to him. Illya knows that if his father was still alive he would be ashamed of _him_ , ashamed of his own son for the things that he feels, for the way that he looks at other men, for the things that he has let Napoleon do to him. 

Deep down, he knows that he’d gladly let Napoleon do even more to him. But he can’t. Illya has to become a pastor, has to find a nice girl and settle down. Illya is going to make his father proud of him. He is going to respect what his father’s wishes for him were, no matter how much he wants to give in to Napoleon.

The guilt still isn’t gone, but neither is the heat in his belly.

Illya falls asleep to the thought of deep blue eyes and dark wavy hair and a mocking laugh, curled in on himself, face hidden in his pillow.

///

Illya is back the next day in his customary seat at Napoleon’s worn kitchen table. Napoleon comes down the stairs to find him and his father seated there, Illya’s old, weathered bible by his elbow and his father’s open on the table in front of them. Illya looks up when he walks in, blushing as he nods at him in acknowledgment. Napoleon nods back with a grin. He grabs the book that he had come down for from the counter and walks back out, strolling up the stairs to the small platform where the stairs change direction. There’s a window seat above the platform, and it’s been Napoleon’s favorite spot in the house since he was a kid. He hops up onto the high platform, settling in to read.

He’s made it nearly a quarter of the way through the faded paperback when Illya comes slouching into the hallway, seeming to not notice Napoleon. He looks lost, so Napoleon finally takes pity on him after watching him wring his hands for a few minutes. He leans forward, pulling one leg up to wrap his arms around his knee while the other dangles off the side of the platform.

“Looking for something, Peril?” Illya visibly starts at his voice, whipping around to glare at him before averting his gaze when Napoleon grins. 

“Your father left papers in his study. I am supposed to get them.” He finally meets Napoleon’s eyes, and Napoleon is surprised when he doesn’t even blush. He’s happy that Illya’s at least getting used to him a bit, but Illya also looks so damn _cute_ with his cheeks tinged pink. 

Napoleon leans farther forward, purring “Well let’s see if I can help you with that,” before hopping down from his seat and walking towards Illya. Illya steps back when he gets close, but Napoleon follows until Illya’s back hits the wall. His blush is finally back now. Illya looks at him with wide eyes as Napoleon places a hand on his chest, placing his other on the wall next to the taller boy so that he can lean up on his tiptoes. He presses a kiss against the underside of Illya’s jaw, smiling when he hears him inhale sharply.

“You’re fucking adorable, yknow that, Peril?” he mutters against his skin. He pouts when Illya pulls back to scowl at him.

“I am not adorable.”

“Sorry, buddy, but you kind of are,” Napoleon laughs, deciding that the best plan of action is to just kiss the frown off of Illya’s face. He leans in slowly, giving Illya enough time to pull back if he wants to. He doesn’t, so Napoleon closes the distance and brushes a soft kiss against Illya’s lips, both of his hands now pressed flat against the Russian’s chest. He expects Illya to pull back, to push him away, to tell him that he’s sick. Perverted. Wrong.

He doesn’t.

Napoleon is the one to pull back, watching Illya’s face carefully. His eyes are closed, and his hands are balled into fists where they hang at his sides. Napoleon thinks that he might be angry, but when Illya finally opens his eyes, theres no anger in them. Illya just looks _torn_. Napoleon tries his best not to feel guilty. He’s got to stick to his plan. He is going to make Illya realize that he’s making a mistake by becoming a pastor if it’s the last thing he does.

Napoleon leans back in, his lips hovering over Illya’s as he whispers, “Second door on the right. His papers are on his desk,” before leaning away again, grinning at Illya like nothing happened. He doesn’t miss the way that Illya sways after him the tiniest bit, chasing his mouth.

“Glad I could be of help, Peril! I’ll see you later” he says cheerily, turning and making his way upstairs, leaving Illya shell shocked and blushing against the wall.

///

Napoleon doesn’t see much of Illya during the rest of the school week, their main interactions mostly being Napoleon throwing him heated looks in the hall while Illya blushes. They don’t have any classes together, which Napoleon thinks is actually a good thing. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to concentrate on his work if they did, and tormenting poor Illya during class would just be cruel.

He doesn’t even get to talk with Illya at home, since his father keeps him so busy reading the Bible and asking him what he thinks of certain passages and explaining how he organizes his sermons. Napoleon’s smart enough to know not to try anything with Illya with his father around. He’s used to lectures about how he’s ruining his shot at getting into Heaven, but he doesn’t think Illya is and he’d really rather it stay that way. For all his nonchalance and jokes, having someone look you in the eyes and call you an abomination actually does take it’s toll. Napoleon doesn’t want Illya to have to go through that, doesn’t want him to become hardened and guarded like Napoleon has. 

Somewhere between his leers and eyelash batting, Napoleon has actually started to feel affection towards Illya. Normally that realization would make Napoleon put a stop to everything and cut himself loose from any potentially messy strings, but he can’t bring himself to stop when it comes to Illya. Napoleon genuinely _likes_ him, in a way that he’s not used to. Sure, he has Gaby, but it’s different with her. The affection that Napoleon feels for Gaby is soft, a pleasant warmth in his chest whenever she laughs openly or touches him without thinking. 

The affection that he feels for Illya is anything but soft. It’s a fiery burning, an ache deep in his chest whenever Illya actually smiles at him or doesn’t move away when Napoleon gets too close. Normally he’d just brush it off as lust, but he knows lust and this isn’t it. This is something dangerous, something that Napoleon knows is quickly spiraling out of his control. Napoleon knows that he’s finally met his match, something that he can’t just lie and smile and fuck his way out of. This is something real and pure and harsh, something that can break him down and ruin him. Napoleon knows that what he’s doing is dangerous, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop trying to get closer to that flame, closer to the giant, awkward mess of a boy that is Illya Kuryakin. 

///

Napoleon’s father leaves early on Saturday to go to make a house call a few towns over. Something about someone’s sick uncle. Napoleon wasn’t really listening to his father’s explanation, the only important piece of information to him being that his father won’t be back until the next morning. That means an entire day of being able to sleep in, eat when he wants, and walk around the house in just his pajama pants without having his father mutter about him being “slovenly and vain”.

Napoleon is still in bed when he hears the knock on the door, groaning as he rolls out of bed and stumbles down the stairs, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. Not even thinking about how he must look with his messy hair and bare chest and his pajama pants slung low over his hips, he throws the door open without checking who it is.

Illya is standing on his door stoop, looking incredibly shocked and _incredibly_ good-looking. Napoleon feels a grin splitting his face at the sight of him, and without thinking he’s grabbing a handful of Illya’s shirt and yanking him into the house with a cry of “Peril!”

He slams the door behind him, quickly spinning back around to crowd Illya back against the wall. Napoleon thinks that Illya showing up is probably the best surprise that he’s ever had. He’s barely seen him all week, and now he’s standing in the middle of Napoleon’s kitchen and Napoleon’s dad is gone and they have the _whole day_ ahead of them. Napoleon is _ecstatic_. His hands are still pressed up against Illya’s chest, and he pushes him self up onto his tiptoes to nuzzle happily against the bottom of the taller boy’s jaw.

“Did you come to see me? Did you miss me?” Napoleon sighs happily.

“I came to see your father. He is not home?” Illya’s reply is choked and stuttered. 

Napoleon tries not to let his disappointment at his answer show as he pulls back from Illya slightly, meeting his eyes as he explains.

“He’s making a house call. He won’t be home until tomorrow morning,” he says, before deciding that he was much happier pressed up against Illya. He moves back in, throwing his arms over the Russian’s shoulders to link behind his head. “I’ll be here all day, though” he finishes, leering at Illya and trying not to laugh at the way that the tips of the other boy’s ears are turning red.

“I.... I should go” Illya mutters, starting to move away.

“Wait!” Napoleon tightens his hold on Illya, desperate to convince him to stay. He looks up at Illya through his eyelashes, making sure that Illya is looking back down at him before slowly bring his hands down again to rest on Illya’s chest and pushing himself back up onto his toes to whisper in Illya’s ear. “Please stay..... please, Illya....... I want you to stay”. He lets his voice betray all that he’s feeling, breathy and desperate. He feels Illya shudder at his words, can tell that his reservations are crumbling. He thinks back to the last time they were alone in the kitchen together, to the way Illya had whimpered when he bit at his ear. He repeats the action again, nipping lightly and tugging, humming in satisfaction when Illya gasps.

“Please stay, Illya..... want you so bad....... want you to stay......” Napoleon’s hands are moving down now, rucking up Illyas shirt as he bites his way across the taller boy’s jaw, being sure not to leave any marks. He hears Illya gasp at the feeling of his hands against his bare skin, Napoleon rubbing one hand over the flat plane of his stomach, the other resting against his bared hip, his thumb rubbing warm circles against his skin. His hand moves up, tracing a hot line up Illya’s chest to rest against his sternum, feeling his heart pounding.

Illya’s gasping out his breaths by now, worked up just by Napoleon touching his bare skin. Napoleon didn’t even know that someone could be this sensitive, trying his best not to miss any of the desperate breathy noises that Illya is whining out. 

Napoleon slowly starts to shifts his hand to the left, looking up and meeting Illya’s gaze. He’s looking back down at him, his pupils blown wide, looking absolutely wrecked already. Napoleon’s dizzy with the knowledge about how much he’s affecting him, that he’s the reason why Illya’s eyed are lidded and his breathing is fast. Napoleon keeps looking up at him as he moves his hand farther to the left, thumbing over Illya’s nipple. 

Illya _moans_ at that, his back arching back off of the door and his eyes fluttering shut. It’s the most beautiful thing that Napoleon has ever seen, Illya gasping and panting under his hands. He knows that if he were to look down he’d see him hard and straining against his pants, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Illya’s face, from the flush that’s high in his cheeks and the shadow of his eyelashes as he tips his head back.

Nearly everything about the moment is perfect. There’s only one problem, and that’s Illya’s hands. They’re still pressed up flat against the wall behind Illya, his long fingers spasming as he keeps his palms pressed flat. Napoleon wants those hands on him, wants it more than anything.

“Peril,” he murmurs, “touch me.” He sees Illya’s eyes flutter open at his words, an expression of pain crossing his face and he stares down at Napoleon.

“I cant,” he whispers back, sounding broken. “I _can’t”_ Napoleon’s brow furrows at that, genuinely confused. 

“Why not?” He knows that Illya wants him, knows that he could easily throw Napoleon off of him and leave if he really wanted to. But he hasn’t, he’s still standing there pressed up against Napoleon’s kitchen door biting his lip and panting.

Illya’s eyes close again, and he tips his head back against the wood and grits out his answer. “It is wrong. We are both men. It’s _wrong_.” Napoleon takes his hands off of Illya after he answers, ignoring the unhappy whine that Illya fails to hold back. He brings one hand up to cup Illya’s face and rests the other on his shoulder, needing to get Illya’s attention before he responds.

“Peril. _Illya._ Look at me.” Illya does, meeting Napoleon’s eyes. He looks confused and guilty and absolutely _wrecked_. “Illya, listen to me. Does this _feel_ wrong? I need you to really think about this. Does this feel unnatural? If you say it does, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll keep my distance, stop touching you. But _please_ Illya, _think_ about it. Does this really feel wrong?” Illya bites his lip, looking like he’s trying to hold his answer back. He bows his head, looking down at his shoes to avoid Napoleon’s eyes.

“It feels right.” Illya’s voice cracks around the words, his voice low and rough. Napoleon steps closer at his words, the hand on Illya’s shoulder coming down to rest on his chest again. He presses himself close to the other boy, raising himself up on his tiptoes and leaning in until their mouths are almost brushing. Illya’s eyes are closed again, his entire body shaking. 

“I need you to say it, Illya. I need you to tell me that you want this. I need to be sure.”

Something in Illya seems to finally break at Napoleon’s words. His response is fast and jumbled, half Russian and half English. “Я хочу тебя. Can’t stop thinking about you. Fuck, пожалуйста. Want you. _Please.”_

His voice breaks on the last word, and before Napoleon even realizes what he’s doing his mouth is on Illya’s, kissing him fast and rough. Illya moans again when he feels Napoleon’s tongue brush up against his lower lip, Napoleon humming in satisfaction when he opens his mouth. The hand he had on Illya’s face is knotted in his hair now, holding him still. Illya kisses exactly like Napoleon thought he would, hot and desperate. What Napoleon hadn’t expected was how vocal Illya is, how he whines high in his throat when he feels Napoleon’s tongue brush against his and whimpers at every nip of Napoleon’s teeth on his bottom lip. His hands, however, are still pressed against the door.

Without breaking the kiss, Napoleon reaches down and grabs both of Illya’s hands, putting them both on his own waist. To his relief, Illya keeps them there when Napoleon lets go to lock his arms back around Illya’s neck. He grins against Illya’s mouth when he feels his hands start to move, one pressing lightly against the small of Napoleon’s back while the other comes to rest between his bare shoulder blades. 

“Yeah, just like that, Peril” he pants against Illya’s mouth. Illya’s still shaking, but he seems to finally be loosening up. He leans back down to catch Napoleon’s mouth again, his hand pressing more heavily on the small of Napoleon’s back, pressing them even closer together, their hips brushing. Napoleon moans when he feels the bulge in Illya’s pants brush against him, and Illya _freezes._

Napoleon pulls back quickly, the only point of contact between them being the hand that Napoleon keeps resting on Illya’s arm. He doesn’t want to scare Illya off, but he also doesn’t want Illya to think that there’s something _wrong_ with him not being comfortable with more than kissing. He doesn’t want Illya to think _any_ of this is wrong. He’s desperate to just make Illya comfortable, to pull him out of his shell and make him _happy_.

“It’s okay, Peril. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It’s okay.” He smiles up at him when Illya meets his eyes, and is almost overwhelmed by the feelings of relief he gets when Illya smiles back. He leans up one one last gentle kiss before he moves his hand to grab Illya’s, pulling him away from the door and towards the hall. 

“C’mon, we’ve got all day to hang out, and I heard there’s an X-Files marathon on.” 

Illya snorts, letting Napoleon lead him through the hallway and into the living room. “You’re sure you are not too scared? I remember you saying you were too scared to make it through Shining” Napoleon pouts at that.

“Those twins were terrifying. Besides,” he grins, suddenly pushing Illya down onto the couch, “It’s not scary if you’ve got a hot Russian boyfriend to hold your hand.” He climbs onto the couch next to Illya, wriggling his way under Illya’s arm.

“...Boyfriend?” 

Napoleon looks up at Illya’s question. Illya is looking down at him, looking torn again. He winces, preparing for to have the conversation that he knows they have to.

“Illya... just hear me out, here. I really, really like you. And apparently you like me. And you obviously like boys.” Illya flinches at that, but Napoleon plows on. “And there’s nothing wrong with that! Like 80% of the animal kingdom has gay sex, like, all the time. It’s totally natural, Illya. The only issue here is that our religion is against it. And I totally respect that you want to be a pastor. I really do. And I don’t know how you feel about girls, but Illya... you like boys.” Illya’s not meeting his eyes now, staring down at his lap. Napoleon’s just glad that he’s not angry at his speech. He doesn’t know how well he’d be able to handle a huge angry Russian in the middle of his living room.

Illya’s still looking down when he finally talks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I... I can still be pastor. Will just not get married. Will not have family. It will be okay.” Napoleon’s heart breaks at how dejected he sounds, at how his voice shakes around the word “family”.

“Illya, we both know it won’t be ‘okay’. Having to repress who you are, what you feel, that’s not okay. It’ll crush you, Illya. You can’t let them do that to you. I tried to do what you’re doing, to just ignore it, and it nearly ruined me. You’ve gotta listen to me, Peril. You can still have your faith, but please don’t become a pastor. I’m begging you, Illya. Please don’t do this.”

Illya finally meets his eyes, and Napoleon is horrified to see that there are tears in them. He looks absolutely miserable.

“What... what would I do? I have always meant to be pastor, even since I was a child. This is what my father wanted me to do.”

“You could do anything, Illya. Whatever you want. You could be a writer, a scientist, Christ, you could be a fuckin spy. You could be anything you want, and you could still be yourself. You could have a family, Illya. And take it from me, fathers don’t always know what’s best. They can be great men, and they can love you and want what’s best for you, but they’re not always right.”

Illya still looks torn, but at least the tears are gone now. He’s still looking at Napoleon, the intensity of his gaze making Napoleon the one to struggling to keep eye contact for once.

“...I will think about it. Will think about what you said.” He pauses for a minute, still looking at Napoleon with that look. “...Thank you, Napoleon.” Illya gives him a soft smile, and Napoleon genuinely feels his heart skip a beat. He smiles back as he answers.

“Anytime, Peril.”

They settle back to watch the TV, Illya’s arm a warm weight across Napoleon’s shoulders. They make it through an entire episode in comfortable silence, but halfway through the second, Illya speaks.

“You say I could be anything?”

“Anything, Peril. I mean it.” Illya pauses for a minute, looking down at Napoleon thoughtfully.

“When you were a child... what did you want to be?” Napoleon blinks at the question. That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. He thinks about his answer for a minute, trying to remember a time before this, before his life with his uptight father, before his mother’s death. He grins when he remembers, knowing that Illya will laugh at his answer.

“I wanted to be a cowboy.” Illya doesn’t disappoint, letting out a surprised laugh.

“Typical American,” he says, still grinning. “Little cowboy Napoleon, with his horse and his bandana. Typical.” Napoleon grins back, feeling a warm glow in his chest at the realization that Illya is comfortable enough with him to poke fun.

Illya is still looking at him, but his laughter is gone now. He looks thoughtful again, and this time it’s Napoleon who has to try not to blush under his gaze. When Illya finally breaks the silence, his voice is hesitant but happy.

“...I would not mind having a cowboy for a boyfriend.”

Napoleon can’t hold back his smile at that, grinning as he leans up to press a kiss to Illya’s cheek, murmuring “Well now you’ve got one, Peril” before settling back in against Illya’s side, feeling warm and safe pressed up against his boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this fic isn't done by a long shot at this point, but its been a while since i posted anything and i thought i was in an alright place to actually post the first part of this, so here it is!!! i fully acknowledge that this au is incredibly ridiculous and self indulgent, but i hope you guys can enjoy it lmao
> 
> this fic is also def going to end up getting a lot more explicit, so if thats not your thing i'd say that this probaby isnt the fic for you
> 
> feel free to talk to me on tumblr at bisexualchekov.tumblr.com!!!


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Monday morning, Napoleon hasn’t seen Illya all weekend, and he’s about to vibrate out of his fucking skin. His teacher has been droning on about quadratics or data points or something for the last half an hour and Napoleon is losing his mind. All he can think about is Illya, how his skin had felt beneath Napoleon’s hands. He can’t stop thinking about how he had moaned, pressed up against the door and desperate for Napoleon. How he had kissed Napoleon back like it was all he had ever wanted.

He also can’t stop thinking about what had happened after that. How Illya had pressed close to him on the couch, how he had let Napoleon rest his head on his shoulder and how he had absentmindedly rubbed little circles onto Napoleon’s arm. He can’t get over how nice it has been, to just be with Illya, to sit with him and be held by him and to have him laugh at his stupid jokes. It had felt more natural than anything Napoleon can remember, like they were meant to be together. It’s a terrifying idea, but instead of scaring him away it just makes Napoleon want Illya even more.

Giving up actually learning anything as a lost cause, Napoleon decides to just go to the bathroom and splash some water on his face. He knows his day will only get worse if he doesn't get himself under control.

Just as he turns the corner, someone else does the same at the end of the hall. An extremely familiar, tall, and handsome someone.

Illya freezes when he sees Napoleon, and Napoleon does the same. His stillness only lasts for a second, though, and soon he’s sprinting down the hall towards Illya. He sees Illya’s eyes widen and his mouth open to say something, but before he has the chance Napoleon is grabbing him and pulling him into the nearby closet by his belt loops, leaning up for a kiss before the door is even closed. Illya indulges him as he pulls the door shut behind them, but before they can get anywhere serious with it Illya is pulling back.

“What are you doing” he hisses, glaring at Napoleon. Napoleon shouldn’t find that glare as hot as he does, but it has him pressing even closer, desperate to get anything that he can from Illya.

“I’m trying to ravage my boyfriend in a closet, if it wasn’t clear.” His fingers are still tangled in Illya’s belt loops, and he uses them to pull Illya forward until he feels his back hit the wall. “That is,” Napoleon purrs, arching up closer to Illya, “unless you want to do the ravaging instead.”

Illya glares at him again, but it’s made weaker this time by how dilated his pupils are. Napoleon grins.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Before Illya can react, Napoleon has flipped their positions, pushing Illya up against the wall instead. He presses close again, trying to get as much contact as possible as he leans up to catch Illya’s mouth. The kiss is more teeth and tongues than anything, both of them desperate to get as close as possible, Illya hunching over to meet Napoleon halfway. Napoleon huffs out a laugh when he feels Illya bite at his lip, thrilled that he’s finally taking what he wants.

They’re both scrambling at each other, desperate to touch wherever they can, pressing as close as possible. When Illya starts working his mouth over Napoleon’s pulse, all Napoleon can do is pant against him, shoving his hips forward without thinking, breathing rambling words against Illya’s ear.

“Fuck, Illya, just like that.” He feels Illya shudder at the praise, so he keeps going. “Feels so good, Peril, you’re-ah! You’re so good. Want you so bad.” He hears Illya start to whine against his throat, feels his hips twitch forwards. “Christ, Peril. Need you to know we don’ have to- fuck- don’t have to do anything before you’re ready. But god, I- Peril, want you to fuck me into my mattress.”

Illya’s given up on Napoleon’s neck, just keeping his head hidden in the joint of Napoleon’s shoulder as he pants and works his hips against Napoleon’s. Napoleon’s hands are on Illya’s hips, urging him forwards as he talks, fighting to actually speak through the haze of lust Illya has him in.

“Can’t- can’t stop thinking about it, Peril. Even in class. Want you to fuck me ‘til I cry, Illya.” He feels Illya gasp against his neck, and before he knows what’s happening Illya is shoving him away. Napoleon can’t help the hurt, confused noise he makes. 

“Peril? What’s wrong?” Illya’s chest is heaving and his pupils are blown, so Napoleon knows that it can’t be that he doesn’t want Napoleon.

“I- I, uh.” Illya is blushing again, ducking his head down to stare at his shoes. “Got- got close” he finishes, his cheeks flaming. Napoleon feels his eyes go wide when he realizes what he’s saying.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” He’s back in front of Illya as fast as he can move, grabbing his face and kissing him fiercely. When he pulls back Illya is looking at him sheepishly.

“Sorry. Should have better control of myself.” Napoleon can’t believe that he’s apologizing for this, for getting so worked up. He moves close to Illya again, looking up to meet his eyes as he replies.

“Peril. There is absolutely nothing that I would rather do than make you come in your pants in this closet.” Illya blushes again at that, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “But, I know that you’re not ready for that. And that’s absolutely fine. We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want.” It’s Napoleon’s turn to duck his head now, shuffling his feet. “I-uh, I’m just happy to be around you. That’s all I really need. Anything else is just a bonus.” When he finally looks back up, Illya’s smile nearly blinds him. 

“Sounds like someone has a crush, Cowboy,” Illya laughs, teasing him. Napoleon huffs out a laugh of his own, relieved that Illya’s not going to make a big deal out of what he’s said. 

“Shut up, Peril. I can’t have a crush on you when you’re already my fucking _boyfriend_.” Illya just laughs again, leaning down to brush a kiss over Napoleon’s lips.

“We should get back to class. We’ve already been gone too long.” Napoleon nods, turning to crack the closet door open and check that there’s no one in the hall. It’s just as empty as it was before, and Napoleon opens the door wider to gesture Illya through, giving a playful bow. Illya only rolls his eyes in response, bumping his shoulder against Napoleon’s. 

“See you later, Cowboy.”

“That, you will, Peril.”

///

Illya starts coming around Napoleon’s house even more, even on days when he isn’t there for Napoleon’s father. Some days he comes over just to see Napoleon. Napoleon’s father always welcomes him in on those days, throwing Napoleon suspicious glances but not protesting when he make their way upstairs to Napoleon’s room. He trusts Illya, believes that he would never let Napoleon corrupt him. He thinks that they spend their time upstairs doing homework and watching movies on Napoleon’s laptop, and doesn’t question their new friendship.

He’s only partially right about what they do in their free time.

They _do_ actually spend a lot of their time on homework and movies. Napoleon likes helping Illya with his English homework, and Illya likes showing Napoleon his favorite movies. They genuinely enjoy each other’s company, enjoy just being close to each other. Napoleon’s father is right about that part of their relationship. 

The thing that he’s _wrong_ about is the assumption that their homework and movies end up getting _finished_.

“Alright Peril, for every 3 answers you get right on this, you get a kiss” Napoleon says, handing Illya back his grammar homework with a grin. Illya’s English is nearly perfect, but he still has instances of dropping articles and mixing words up. At the moment Illya’s English class is reviewing “who” vs “whom” and Illya seems to be ready to rip his hair out from frustration. Napoleon knows the feeling, since he was struggling with the same subjects a few months ago. Their new method, though, seems to be doing wonders for both of their determination in school. Napoleon isn’t so sure that he would have done nearly as well as he did on his last chemistry test if it hadn’t been for Illya rewarding him with kisses.

They’re both cross legged in the middle of Napoleon’s bedroom, their papers spread out on the sun-bleached wooden floor. Illya takes the paper from Napleon, bending over to write on the floor. He works in silence, a look of determination on his face. His pen scratches away as he goes through the problems, his messy scrawl filling the paper. Napoleon watches him, chin in hand. The sunlight streaming through his windows is turning Illya’s hair golden, throwing shadows all over his face. Napoleon doesn’t think that he’s ever seen anymore more lovely than Illya, with his bright eyes and his strong jaw and his long limbs.

“Cowboy?” Napoleon starts, realizing that Illya has finished. He’s looking at him with a knowing grin, knowing exactly why Napoleon was staring. Napoleon glares at him, sliding the paper towards himself to check it over. He’s grinning too by the time he’s done, putting the paper aside as Illya looks at him quizzically. 

“You got them all right, Peril.” Illya looks delighted at that as Napoleon unfolds his legs to kneel in front of Illya. He leans forward slowly, balancing himself with one hand on Illya’s shoulder and the other on his thigh. “Looks like we can take a break from studying for a while. And I think I owe you quite a few kisses.”

Illya’s grin turns sharper at Napoleon’s words, and he leans forwards to kiss Napoleon. Napoleon opens his mouth quickly, letting Illya lick into his mouth as he leans more heavily against him. Napoleon had been shocked at how good of a kisser Illya turned out to be once he got used to it and actually let himself go. Napoleon has to hold back a gasp as Illya bites lightly at Napoleon’s bottom lip, grinning against Napoleon’s mouth and straighten his legs out so that Napoleon can climb into his lap. 

Napoleon had also been shocked at how easily Illya had accepted their relationship. He knows that Illya is still torn about his future, but apparently all he had really needed was someone to sit him down and spell out to him that he really _did_ have a choice. Napoleon knows that he’s still not decided on what he’s going to do, but he’s just happy that he’s thinking about it. He’s also incredibly happy that in the meantime, Illya seems perfectly content to kiss Napoleon half out of his mind on his bedroom floor.

As Illya moves down to lave attention on Napoleon’s neck, Napoleon feels one of his arms come up to rest on his hip as Illya bends his other arm so that he’s resting on his elbow. They’re both nearly horizontal at this point, a fact that’s made abundantly clear when Illya’s arm slips from underneath him and his head bangs against the floor, Napoleon sliding halfway off of him.

“Oh shit, Illya, are you alright?” Napoleon’s hands flutter somewhere around Illya’s head, not knowing what to do. Illya only groans in response, cracking an eyes open to glare at Napoleon.

Napoleon can’t help laughing when he realizes that Illya’s not hurt, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek and murmuring against his skin.

“If you get on the bed I’ll kiss it better.” 

He laughs again when Illya immediately levers himself up, grabbing Napoleon’s hand to pull him up along with himself. He tugs Napoleon towards his bed, laying down and pulling Napoleon up on top of him. Napoleon doesn’t think he’s ever been happier that no one can see his bed through the windows.

Napoleon straddles Illya’s waist, leaning down to kiss him and bracing himself on his elbows, bracketing Illya in with his arms. Illya moans when he moves down to his neck, his hands coming to rest on Napoleon’s hips. One of Napoleon’s hands moves down to Illya’s hip, rucking his t-shirt up to touch his skin. Illya arches up into his touch, as sensitive as ever. Napoleon’s hand moves up to rub circles onto his side as Illya lets out a contented sigh.

“You should take your shirt off,” Napoleon says, pulling away from where he’s been sucking a hickey onto Illya’s collarbone to look up at him. As soon as their eyes meet Illya is leaning up, grabbing the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head.

Napoleon can’t help staring, not used to all of the skin that he’s being presented with. Illya’s skin is smooth and pale, marked up in a few places with small scars to match the one on his face. He barely has any hair, just a dusting of light blonde over his chest and a trail from his bellybutton that disappears down into his jeans. 

Illya’s still sitting up, Napoleon straddling his lap. Napoleon reaches up to run his hands over Illya’s skin, one hand running down his arm while the other rests flat against his stomach. He traces the muscles of his arms, subtle, natural bulk from yard work and his judo training back in Russia. Illya’s eyes flutter closed as Napoleon touches him, falling back against the pillows when Napoleon pushes him with a hand on his chest. Napoleon leans down to taste his skin, licking and biting at his chest. Illya moans when he takes a nipple into his mouth, biting down lightly and then licking over it until it’s hard.

Napoleon pauses when he hears Illya gasp his name, sounding nervous. He leans back up, reaching down to grab one of Illya’s hands from where it’s fisted in his sheets.  
“Whats up? Was that too much? We can stop, if you want.” Now _Napoleon_ is nervous, worrying that he’s pushed Illya’s boundaries. Illya grips his hand back, not meeting his eyes.

“No, it was not too much. Was good. I just- I.” He finally meets Napoleon’s eyes, blushing. “Remember what you said? In the closet?” Napoleon grins, happy that Illya’s comfortable.

‘You mean when I said that I wanted you to fuck me into my mattress?” Illya blushes, his eyes darting away again.

“Yes. That.”

“What about it?” Illya looks back at him, still blushing.

“Don’t think I’m ready for. Uh. _That_ yet. But I, ah.” Napoleon tilts his head, taking in the way Illya’s blush is deepening. “I want to- to see you,” Illya finishes, glancing nervously at Napoleon. Napoleon cocks an eyebrow, confused.

“I’m right here, Peril. Do you mean _see_ me as in like, date me? Because I thought that we were already doing that.” Illya shakes his head, looking mortified.

“Nyet- _No_ , I mean I want you- I want to see you touch yourself. If that is okay.” Illya rushes through the sentence, his accent heavily and his words running together. Napoleon feels a grin split his face, and he leans down to kiss Illya, whose face is still flaming.

“Why didn’t you just say so, Peril,” he laughs as he leans back, stripping his own shirt off. “How do you want me?” He can’t help giggling when he hears Illya choke, leaning back in again to kiss him, feeling Illya’s hand come up to rest hesitantly against on his hips.

“I- uh. This is fine?” Illya’s so nervous he’s shaking, and Napoleon kisses him tenderly, stroking a hand down his side.

“It’s alright Peril, calm down. Anything you want, it’s yours. I promise.” He hears Illya take a deep breath at his words, sees him open his eyes and nod at Napoleon. He takes that as meaning it’s okay to keep going, so he sits back up until he’s kneeling over Illya. 

He braces himself with a hand on Illya’s chest, one hand inching down his down stomach, coming to rest over the bulge that’s already pushing against his pants. He presses the heel of his palm against himself, inhaling sharply, his eyes still on Illya’s. He keeps up the eye contact as he undoes his fly, lifting himself up with his knees to shove his pants and boxers down to his thighs, settling back down over Illya’s hips as his cock springs free.  
He’s only half hard when he takes himself in his hand, watching Illya stare up at him, his pupils dilating. Napoleon tries not to preen. If there’s one thing that he’s proud of, it’s having a _damn_ pretty cock. He’s long and smooth, cut and flushed pink. He strokes himself slowly as Illya watches, watching as his eyes track his movements.

Illya looks up when Napoleon lets go of himself, bringing his palm up to Illya’s mouth. Illya doesn’t even hesitate before licking his palm, his eyes closing at the taste of salt on Napoleon’s skin. 

Napoleon brings his hand back down to wrap around his cock, pumping himself and gasping at how much better it feels now. Illya opens his eyes again when he hears Napoleon’s noise, his eyes wide as he stares up at Napoleon’s face. Napoleon throws him a shaky smile as his hand speeds up, feelings Illya’s hands come up to hold his hips. 

Napoleon’s desperate for more, but he knows that Illya’s not ready. So he pumps himself hard and fast, focusing on Illya’s face, how his skin feels where Napoleon’s bracing himself against his chest, on how hot his hands are where they rest on his bare hips. He can’t hold back his moan when he hears Illya mutter his name, wonder in his voice.

“Y-Yeah, Peril. Please. Talk to me. Tell me what you want.” His voice breaks on the last word, as he twists his wrist, his cock dripping. He sees Illya blush, but despite his obvious doubts Illya does what Napoleon asked, his voice low and rough.

“I- I want to hear you moan. I want to hear how good it feels.” Napoleon’s moan at his words is completely genuine, his eyes fluttering closed and his head tipping back as he listens to Illya. He keeps talking, encouraged by Napoleons reaction. “I want to touch you and taste you. I want you to keep touching yourself until you come, want you to make a mess all over my chest.” Napoleon bites his lip as he whines, trying to hold back his release, needing to hear what else Illya says.

“I w-want. I want you to fuck me, Napoleon. I want to feel you inside of me.” Napoleon finally comes with a shocked moan at Illya’s words, his head falling forwards as he pumps himself through it. His eyes stay closed through the aftershocks, panting as he tries to catch his breath. When he finally opens his eyes, Illya is still staring up at him, his eyes wide and a blush high in his cheeks. Napoleon’s come is splattered all over his chest, but he doesn’t seem to mind, judging by how dilated his pupils are. Or by the way his cock is straining against his pants when Napoleon glances down. 

Napoleon leans down again to kiss Illya, loose and sated from his orgasm. Illya kisses back, still wound up and desperate. Napoleon’s hand inches down from Illya’s chest to his stomach, his hand resting just above the line of his jeans.

“Do you want me to?” Napoleon manages to get out between Illya’s kisses.

“ _Da_. пожалуйста.” Those are just about the only two words in Russian that Napoleon knows, and he takes them as an affirmative. He moves his hand down to cup Illya through his jeans, squeezing. Illya’s still babbling in Russian against Napoleon’s mouth, which he takes as a good thing as he presses the heel of his palm down, massaging. To Napoelon’s surprise, Illya comes almost immediately, his mouth falling open on a keening moan. 

Napoleon kisses him through the aftershocks, continuing to working his hand against Illya until he hears him whimper and try to bat Napoleon’s hand away. When Napoleon pulls back, Illya is blushing again, refusing to meet his gaze. Napoleon frowns, worried again. He brings a palm up to Illya’s face, murmuring a quiet “Hey,” as he turns Illya’s head towards him. Illya looks mortified again as he meets Napoleon eyes, his eyes flicking down to focus somewhere on Napoleon’s chest when he speaks.

“I’m sorry. Should have better control.” Napoleon frowns again at his apology.

“Peril. Illya. C’mon, look at me.” He waits until Illya looks up before he continues. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I like how sensitive you are. To be honest, it’s kind of really hot.” Illya blushes again as Napoleon talks, but he doesn’t look away. “You’ve gotta stop being so hard on yourself. Nothing matters here expect for you and me, okay? Quit worrying so much, and just enjoy yourself.” 

He kisses Illya again when he finishes, keeping it soft and reassuring. Illya eventually starts kissing him back, sighing happily against Napoleon’s mouth as Napoleon lowers himself down next to him on his side, running a hand gently down Illya’s arm. After a few moments Napoleon pulls back, remembering something that Illya had said.

“Peril?” Illya hums in response, his eyes closed, trying to worm his way closer to Napoleon, heedless of the come drying on his chest as he presses himself up against the American. Napoleon wraps his arms around him, tugging him closer as he continues hesitantly. “...Did you mean what you said earlier? About how you want me to fuck you?” 

He feels Illya stiffen, burying his face into Napoleon’s chest, quietly mumbling his answer.

“What was that?”

Illya finally pulls back, looking embarrassed again. He mumbles his answer again, but this time it’s audible.

“I meant it.” He looks like he’s expecting Napoleon to laugh at him, or to deny him one of the only things that he’s blatantly asked for. Instead, Napoleon tugs him closer again, kissing his cheek.

“I told you that we can do anything you want, Illya. If that’s what you want, you can have it, whenever you feel ready.”  
“But you said-” 

“I know what I said, Peril.” Napoleon cuts him off, knowing exactly what he’s trying to say. “But I’m also completely on board with doing it the other way around. Besides, it’s not like this is a one-time thing. I can fuck you, and we’ll still have plenty of time for you to fuck me incoherent later, if you’re feeling up to it. It’ll all be fine.”

Illya blushes again at Napoleon’s bluntness, but he looks happier, a smile on his face. He leans forwards to brush a kiss against Napoleon’s mouth, feeling Napoleon smile back.

“Thank you, Napoleon,” he murmurs against his mouth.

“Don’t mention it, Illya,” Napoleon replies, before pulling back, tugging his pants back up and ignoring Illya’s pout. “Now lets get you cleaned up.” He grins when Illya whines, his head flopping back onto the pillows as Napoleon tugs on his hand. “We can still cuddle after,” he adds as an afterthought, watching as Illya’s pout transforms into a blinding grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so much shorter, but i promise ill try to write more soon!
> 
> im also sorry that it took me so long to update this but i got hit with some _major_ writers block that im still trying to work through. and i know its super cheesy to say but i really just want to say thank you to anyone who commented on/left kudos on/bookmarked this fic. i was seriously wondering if it was even worth it to keep going with this fic but looking at all the nice things that people wrote convinced me to actually post this pile of sin. im sorry that i didnt manage to work up the nerve to write back to you guys, but just know that i really appreciate what you said  <3
> 
> anyway hope you enjoyed the porn lmao


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